


The Shirt

by DaftDays



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: I Don't Even Know, I just wanted Arthur with messy hair wearing Eames' shirt, M/M, Pining, Without a boyfriend, boyfriend shirt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 15:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4839827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaftDays/pseuds/DaftDays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames leaves his shirt behind.</p><p>Arthur takes it home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shirt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cinnamonen](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cinnamonen).



> So I ended up deep in the Inception slump about 5 years too late (always loved the movie, the shipping only now caught on).
> 
> We were talking about Arthur wearing Eames' awful shirts with a friend and then I woke up this morning and I needed this so it happened. I have no idea what I'm doing I'm so new to this that it's freaking me out but here we go anyway. Un-beta'd and poorly edited cause I'm awfully busy these days.
> 
> I just love Eames and Arthur way too much.

Eames has forgotten his shirt.

Arthur stares at it, the purple-and-beige colored lump of fabric on the floor of what qualifies as their base these days. He knows it’s Eames’, it's a given,of course he does. No-one else would touch such a hideous creation that in and of itself is an insult to all fashion gods that might or might not exist. That, and it makes Arthur’s eyes hurt, it literally does (though if that’s because of the pattern or because he’s been staring at it without blinking for far too long, he doesn’t know, doesn’t think about).

“Eames left something again?”

The question comes out of nowhere. If Arthur was anyone else but, well, Arthur, he might jump a little. As it stands, he only turns to look at Cobb who’s clearly on his way out, carrying his bag and his coat and looking all too busy and efficient.

“Looks like it”, Arthur answers, blinks finally. His eyes still sting a little.

“Put it somewhere, will you? He can get it back when he comes around again.” Dom is clearly busy, heading somewhere important. Otherwise he’d do it himself, Arthur knows as much.

“’When’?” Arthur echoes and only catches the tail ends of Cobb’s laughter as the man hurries out.

Apparently, it’s ‘when’ and not ‘if’. Fine.

He’s back to staring at the shirt. It hasn’t moved, hasn’t magically gotten rid of the offensive pale purple swirls that are lined with yellow, a detail Arthur only now notices and wants to tear his eyes out for. He can’t fathom why Eames insists on wearing these monstrosities. Perhaps the poor man is color blind, though even that wouldn’t explain the awful patterns that make appearances in his shirts and ties time and time again. It’s ridiculous and he’s pointed it out often enough and Eames… Well, Eames just laughs. But then, he’s Eames and Arthur would be shocked if there was any other reaction to be gained from him.

Minutes pass and the shirt, the shirt is still there and so is Arthur. A heavy sigh escapes his lips as he finally gives in, accepts the fact that the shirt will not get up and walk away without a little help. A shame, because he really doesn’t want to touch it. He’s certain it smells and all. It’s Eames’ after all.

Arthur doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until after he’s picked the shirt up and his body forces him to exhale and then inhale almost at once.

And he was right. The shirt does smell. But it doesn’t necessarily smell bad. It smells like… Eames. Cologne, something else, stuffy like it’s been worn one day too long. Weird how Arthur can still make out the faint scent of laundry detergent. Whatever kind Eames is using, it must have pretty strong fragrance.

A car honks somewhere outside and Arthur is startled out of his thoughts. The shirt is right there, in front of his face, damn near his nose and he blanches, hurries to stuff it away, doesn’t want to think about it, what exactly he was doing. Because whatever it was, he most definitely was not sniffing Eames’ shirt in the middle of their office. He is just tired, that must be it. Yes, definitely. Tired. Time to go home.

How the shirt ends up in his briefcase, he is not quite sure.

But there it is when he makes it home. He opens his briefcase to look for something, all coherent thoughts flying out of his head when he is greeted with a whiff of Eames’ cologne, floating to assault his nose like a baby butterfly (and yes, Arthur knows there’s no baby butterflies in existence but it’s the most accurate description, dammit). For a moment he’s frozen, drawing in the faint smell, something strange and foreign in the apartment that hasn’t seen another person since he bought it. It’s his safe place, a haven he’s never brought another soul into because every now and then he gets a little paranoid and really, everyone needs their secrets.

And now there’s a piece of Eames, of all people, in the middle of his bedroom, his small cosy bedroom with a lovely view out to the city, windows angled so that it would extremely difficult for a sniper to catch him from any of the surrounding buildings. Eames’ shirt is here and Arthur doesn’t know what to do with it, feels ridiculously at loss for a while. He can only stare at the piece of clothing in his briefcase, think about the absurdity of it all. Of how absolutely fitting this actually is, that it is Eames and not for example Cobb who left his shirt behind for Arthur to take home. He could build all kinds of metaphors around it and he doesn’t think he really wants to. It’s getting too dangerous.

“You useless English slob”, Arthur murmurs, gets some kind of satisfaction out of insulting Eames despite him not being there. He pulls the shirt out, doesn’t want to inhale it, won’t. Just… no. And then he does something he never does. He haphazardly throws it on his bed. Haphazardly. Him, Arthur. He’s nothing if not thorough and neat and he never throws clothing around, he even folds his shirts before he puts them in the laundry basket. Yet somehow Eames’ shirt ends up in a crumpled heap on his bed.

Not that he stops to look. He really needs to shower and have something to eat before going to bed. It’s been a long day, and not only because the shirt.

By the time he’s watched the news, hair curling damp around his ears in a way that makes him look five years younger (according to him at least, Cobb however insists that it takes fifteen years off), belly comfortably full and his toes nice and warm in his designer bedroom slippers, he’s almost forgotten the shirt. Almost, but not quite. There’s a fight curling inside him, a pull and a push because he really doesn’t want to go into his bedroom, doesn’t want to see the shirt on his bed, doesn’t want to deal with it and the Eames-smelling spot he’s sure has been permanently imprinted on his blanket. He doesn’t want any of it, yet there’s a part of him (a smaller part, mind you, it’s actually really really tiny and all) that wants to be in that bed, preferably with the shirt. It’s small, yes, but it’s growing, and Arthur doesn’t know how long he can resist.

Turns out it takes a total of sixty-three minutes, one episode of Real housewives of whatever and a little bit of snooker until he gives up on TV. It’s amazing how you can have a TV with a thousand channels and absolutely nothing to watch.

The television off, Arthur heads into bed. He’s already brushed his teeth, has taken care of everything (locks, a couple of booby traps, just in case) and he’s ready. Well, as ready as he’ll ever be, because as he looks at the shirt from the doorway it almost feels like something dangerous, something scary, something that will swallow him whole and never let go if he’s not careful.

(Not that that hasn’t already happened. There’s some beauty to be found in denial.)

Then he’s walking, nearly tiptoeing towards his bed and he realizes how dumb he’s being and it makes him frown. It’s just a shirt, dammit. He's making this big a deal out of an article of clothing, Eames' clothing. Arthur frowns and grabs the shirt, means to put it away so he can go to sleep yet somehow finds himself still clutching it as he crawls underneath the covers and flicks off the light.

In the dark the shirt doesn’t look nearly as offensive. Probably because Arthur can’t see it, but still. The material is nice, really nice actually. Not as nice as his shirts but that’s no wonder considering where he shops. But it’s definitely not cheap and for a moment he’s tempted to turn the lights back on to check the label on the neck of the shirt. He doesn’t, though, not when the scent catches him again.

It’s deep, in a way. Earthy, the cologne the thing that still jumps at him. Even so it’s not exactly imposing, it’s just… nice. Eames wears a really nice cologne, something that really fits him. This might or might not be the first time Arthur has noticed this but it’s definitely the first time he allows himself to actually think about it that way. Spicy but not over the top, masculine but not to a point of feeling stuffy, just a hint of rich sweetness hidden somewhere within.

The weird thing is, he’s expected sweat and other nasty things, and there’s none of that. He takes another sniff, brings the shirt closer to his face, only for research purposes he tells himself. Because he refuses to believe that Eames isn’t the slob he likes to think the man is. There’s the faintest waft of sweat in the armpits of the shirt but it’s so light it’s hardly even there. Just knowing that it is though is a small victory to Arthur and he smiles a little, lips brushing against the fabric of the shirt and he inhales again, the mix of aftershave and sweat and what is just Eames and he can’t help the insistent flutter inside his chest that makes him feel like he’s a little drunk or a little high or just… Well. Being silly.

When he wakes up, the shirt is still there. Pressed against his chest, a sleeve between his face and the pillow, an imprint of a button on his cheek. Arthur is quick to check that he hasn’t drooled on the fabric (he hasn’t), but he isn’t nearly as quick to get up or even get rid of the shirt. Instead he closes his eyes, inhales deep, drags in the distinctive scent that makes his toes curl and something settle heavy in the pit of his stomach and silently he curses Eames, blind dumb foolish Eames who just can’t figure things out on his own.

It’s a slow morning. They finished their job the day before (the day Eames left his shirt behind) and technically that means a day off for Arthur. He’s going to spend it on research as he always does but that is as relaxing to him as lying on a beach is to some so it’s a sort of a holiday anyway. He showers, brushes his teeth, even shaves the hints of stubble that push insistently out of his chin. His hair has curled in a way that needs to be sorted out before he leaves the house but for now he lets it be, just stares at himself in the mirror and sighs. Maybe one day he’ll cut it all off and hope that it grows back straight. It would save him big time on hair products.

There’s only a towel wrapped neatly around his hips (and naturally, he wears bathroom slippers) as he makes it back to the bedroom. The shirt, still an atrocity in its coloring, catches his eye, and he sighs deep. As if he didn’t know it was coming.

Sometimes being the only one in love is hard as hell. He needs this little moment to pretend… something. To keep it here so he doesn’t take this with him to his dreams and embarrass himself one day in front of Cobb or… others.

The shirt is too big for him. Eames is a little shorter than he is, but he is built much heavier, bulkier, more muscle, so the shirt sits loose on Arthur’s leaner frame. He buttons it neatly, leaves the two top buttons open, pulls on boxers too because going without just won’t do, even if he’s playing Eames this morning (which he actually isn’t, he’s just wearing Eames’ shirt and it’s freaking him out a little so it's easier to tell himself that he's forging Eames).

Coffee. He needs coffee. Needs the calm brought by caffeine, the familiar scent that will surely cover the sweet smell that now floats everywhere around him, something he catches every time he as much as raises his hand, moves around. It’s like being enveloped in Eames and while Arthur knows he shouldn’t like it, shouldn’t want it, he does. Oh, he does, so much that it almost hurts. And that makes him feel pathetic.

The coffee doesn’t really help. It calms his nerves, yes, it dulls out the scent some, but it doesn’t help. And help is what he needs. Because he no longer wants to be pining after Eames like a teenager foolishly in love with an upperclassman. It’s no good and he knows it. So this, this has to be it. He allows himself this one morning to sit around, wear the shirt and just pretend, and then it must be over. He doesn’t need anyone, doesn’t want anyone. Least of all Eames. It’s way too dangerous.

A sigh escapes from his lips, three birds fly past his living room window. Arthur watches them go, smiles soft and fond, knows exactly how it feels to fly like that, has done it in a dream. His fingers play with the hem of the shirt, roll around a button between his fingertips, trace the hideous swirls that make him think of the Yellow Wallpaper and how he just might go crazy too if he allows this to go on one minute longer.

So he can’t. He stands up, leaves his coffee mug on the table. His fingers are on the lowest buttons of the shirt as he walks towards the bedroom, slow reluctant steps because he doesn’t really want to take the shirt off but he knows he must. He steps in, undoes another button, feels worse and better at the same time.

The doorbell rings.

For a second Arthur's world tilts, now ice cold hands frozen on the shirt, eyes on the floor.

No-one has a reason to be at his door. No-one knows it’s here, he is, his apartment, he’s told no-one. His mail doesn’t get delivered here, nothing does. His neighbors never bother him, there aren't even girl scouts trying to sell him cookies, it just doesn't happen. Not here. Yet now there is someone, at his door, and he doesn’t think. He tiptoes towards the door, pulls open a drawer beneath his clothes rack, curls fingers around the handle of a gun. Safety off, finger on the trigger as he drags feet to his door. Death in shape of a human wearing a hideous shirt, boxers and dark blue bathroom slippers, still smelling like coffee and shampoo and Eames.  
He doesn’t want to open the door. He doesn’t even want to look, someone might pop one into his eye through the peephole. So he waits. But not for long.

“Please don’t shoot me, darling.”

Eames’ voice carries easily through the door, the rough drawl of his accent. Arthur nearly drops the gun. It's relief and it's shock and it's _how the hell does he know where I live_ and more _importantly why is he here_. And it's five words out of Eames' mouth and Arthur can feel his resolve crumbling, shattering into tiny shards that scrape hia pride raw because  _fuck,_ how is he ever supposed to stay away from that man?

He’s also still wearing the shirt.

“Wait just a minute”, he gets out, dashes to his bedroom, damn near stumbles over his own feet. When he comes back to the door he’s in his own shirt, own pants, Eames’ shirt folded as crisply as he can. His hair is still a mess.

Eames waits behind the door, patient as ever when Arthur opens the door. He takes his shirt when Arthur tries to hand it over gracefully, takes one sniff at it and smiles, knowing.

Arthur does not blush. Instead, he surprises them both by asking Eames in for breakfast.

It's at least twice as shocking when Eames says yes.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope it wasn't awful. 
> 
> Eames' version of events may follow.


End file.
